


The Unlikely Alliance

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Exophilia, F/M, Human/Monster Romance, Original Characters - Freeform, POV Third Person, This Isn't a Reader Insert, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-07 05:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19202962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: Sally might have spent her life being told what to do, where to go, when to smile, and how to outsmart and utterly destroy her enemies, but that doesn't mean she wants to follow in her father's footsteps. But still, being the daughter of someone rich and important puts a target on her back, so her father has recently hired a new bodyguard to make sure she's safe.Now she's being followed throughout her daily life by a rough and tough werewolf who looks like he eats iron nails for breakfast, which, unfortunately, has a disrupting effect of her life. All she has to do, though, is grit her teeth and slog through it like the mature adult she is, waiting for the danger to blow over with her head held high.Then everything will be fine.***If you are reading this on any third party apps (such as unofficialao3), or on any platform besides AO3, Tumblr, and Wattpad, then you are reading stolen work. I do not give consent for my stories to be published or pulled elsewhere.***





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was commissioned by a user who wishes to remain anonymous.

The sounds of the ceramics cracking together almost send Sally into cardiac arrest, only once she looks over the plates to make sure there are no breaks or chips in the glaze does she breathe a sigh of frustrated relief.  _Be careful,_  she silently scolds herself, disgruntled at her own clumsiness but a little too angry to put in much more thought in it. Some random man is supposed to show up on her doorstep today, a person her father picked with none of her input, and her rage at the unfairness of it all seems to be clouding some of her judgment in other areas.

 

She almost finishes stacking the plates into the dishwasher when someone knocks on her door, loudly and suddenly enough that she nearly drops a drinking glass. With as much poise and grace as she can muster, Sally places the glass carefully in the metallic shelf, spins around, and marches calmly to the door. All that she can make out of the distorted peephole view is a splash of tan skin, and maybe a flash of bright yellow eyes? Something must be off with the hallways lighting because the only people who have that bright a color for eyes are… they are….

 

The door creaks loudly as it always does, the hinges almost rusted shut. While Sally kind of regrets not harassing the landlord a little more about having them fixed, the grating noise at least makes the bodyguard’s eye twitch ever so slightly, so she suddenly doesn’t mind it so much. She stands there, in the doorway of her apartment, mouth in a firmly shut line as she looks this werewolf up and down, though for what exactly, she doesn’t know. It’s not as though she can sniff out any weaknesses like her father, but maybe she thinks that the ability will just show up one day for her to continuously try.

 

He’s an imposing figure, that’s for sure. His head barely misses the door frame as he steps inside, completely uninvited, mind you, and takes a look around, bright golden eyes dancing from one corner of the living room to the next. His hair is dark, either dark brown or black, Sally can’t tell in this lighting, an old leather jacket just barely large enough to fit those massive biceps, and a belt, decidedly free of any holsters or weapons at his waist. Something about the way he strolls in like he owns the place sends a bitter little zing up Sally’s spine.

 

“What, no gun?” She asks, hands on hips, a glare growing in her eyes.

 

“I don’t need them.” His voice is low, but not in a way that makes her nervous, or put off, the way most of her father’s ‘buddies’ tend to make her feel. In any case, Sally isn’t certain whether or not that statement is to reassure her, but there is certainly no feeling of relief.

 

After a pause, she says, “Well, I’m Sally.”

 

“I know.” He doesn’t even pretend to tolerate any brief, yet polite introductions.

 

Another moment of silence, during which Sally feels a ping of annoyance. “And what am I supposed to call you?”

 

The werewolf shrugs, but at Sally’s calm and withering stare, responds with, “Ronan.”

 

“Ronan,” she echoes, picking at the underside of her nails. “I can’t say that it’s nice to meet you, Ronan, but I understand that there isn’t much either of us can do about that matter.”

 

“No, there’s not,” he agrees, “and it would be much easier on the both of us if you don’t put up any fuss. At least until the job is over, then I guess you can complain and hiss as much as you want.”

 

Sally takes a sharp breath of frustration at the caricature he describes but manages to keep her cool maintained. Instead of giving him the satisfaction of arguing, she steps aside, back towards her dishwasher and begins to set it up for the cycle. “Ground rules,” she says, stacking three bowls by each other. “One, don’t touch the art. You don’t know what is drying and what is finished. In fact, just don’t touch anything.”

 

“I make the rules here, not you.” He stands his full height, crossing his arms, and gave her a glare just icy enough that it could save the world from global warming. “And I don’t care about you or your feelings or your friends, what I say will go. Anything short of that will have consequences.”

 

“Rule two,” she continues loudly, ignoring his statement, only glancing over her shoulder to make sure he is at least listening. “The last bodyguard I’ve had seemed fine with leaving messes wherever he went, and I certainly hope you won’t have the same issue.”

 

He makes a sound, either a laugh, or a grunt, Sally can’t tell, but at least he has temporarily ceased the protests. That counts for something, she hopes.

 

“Rule three.” She slams the dishwasher shut, maybe a little too hard. “You can watch me from outside of my classrooms. You don’t get to wedge yourself into my life, I don’t want any awkward conversations with my classmates or to get in trouble with my professors. And before you even say anything else,” she can already see him about to argue over it, “this is all I’m asking for you to do. Follow  _my_  rules, and I’ll make things easy as possible on you. If you don’t?” Sally shrugs. “I think you have underestimated my abilities to make your life difficult.”

 

“What do you plan to do, run away? There’s nowhere for you to go where I can’t find you.” Ronan says, arching a single, scared eyebrow. “And your father has given me his blessing to be as rough on you as I need to be.”

 

Her hands almost start shaking with the rage that floods her veins. “I am well aware, but wouldn’t it be  _massively inconvenient_  for you to tell your boss every day that your charge has managed to escape… again? How many times before he decides that you’re incompetent and need to be fired?” Sally carefully wipes her damp fingers on the towel. “I’m assuming that you aren’t new to the network good old dad has created, so I’m certain that you understand that people don’t just get to walk away after a failure.”

 

Ronan at least has the decency to look slightly put off by her threats, as though it had never occurred to him that a mob boss might have raised his daughter to be as ruthless as he.

 

“Look,” already, she can tell he is a man of few words, “I am entirely willing to be cooperative- within reason, of course. I just want my own life to continue as uninterrupted as possible. Help me out, and I’ll help you out, alright?”

 

It takes a long while for him to fully process her statement, but after a bit of pondering, Sally is rewarded with a single, clipped nod to signify Ronan’s agreement. She tries not to let out a sigh of relief, she needs to uphold the facade of dangerous criminal at least until it’s safe to let it down. With a wash of victory rinsing out most of the anxiety within her stomach, she walks over to where her book bag sits and places the strap over her shoulder.

 

“I’m assuming that my father has given you a detailed schedule of my day?” Sally asks, grabbing a tumbler full of iced coffee.

 

“I didn’t bother reading it, figured you’d just tell me.”

 

That somehow makes her feel better. “Well, school first. You can follow me, I suppose, until I get to the classroom. There are benches in the hall you can chill at until it’s over, and trust me, you’d know if something wrong is happening.”

 

They step out of her apartment, a cold breeze kicking up as autumn begins muscling its way into summer. The day isn’t terrible, but it’s somewhat awkward having Ronan follow her like a lapdog wherever she goes. Maybe not exactly a lap dog, because one of Sally’s classmates awkwardly asks who the hell is Ronan and if she is at all aware that this terrifying looking werewolf is trailing her. Sally’s had to repeat herself until she’s hoarse to anyone and everyone that yes, she knows that man, and no, he is not stalking her, there’s no need to worry.

 

But it’s fine, everything’s fine, it’s not like this is damaging her reputation at school  _at all._

 

Usually, Sally eats lunch in the cafeteria, picking from one of the many food vendors offered, but now with Ronan standing behind her like some kind of deranged murderer at all times, she’s taken to eat outside, as far away from everyone as possible, but within a reasonable distance from her next class. Several picnic tables dot the campus, so it’s not difficult to find a particular one that no one else has claimed. Ronan eats with her, sitting across from the table. Even though they’ve been doing this for some time, he seems reluctant to even humor her as she tries engaging in idle conversation.

 

“You got a girlfriend?” She asks, maybe a week into the weird symbiotic relationship the two of them have managed to develop. It was a shot in the dark, some guys just won’t shut the hell up about their girlfriends, so Sally thought this might be the master key into his life. Apparently not. At his silence, she tries again. “Boyfriend? Um… nonbinary-friend?”

 

He finally looks at her, eyebrow raised. Sally thinks she’s getting better at reading his moods and takes a gander that this is something akin to amusement. Then, shockingly, he says the first words of conversation that don’t have to do with his job: “No.”

 

“Oh,” she says, shrugging, trying to not let much of her excitement at getting him to talk show. “Neither do I.”

 

He grunts.

 

Having Ronan follow her around might not have been so awful if he wasn’t so… remarkable. To put it plainly, he has a  _presence,_  one that most people find difficult to not notice. It would, Sally thinks, be infinitely easier if her father had just assigned a bodyguard with less aggressive features, one that could blend in with just about every average guy who graces her school’s campus. What’s worse is that after most of her classmates realized that no, this man is not stalking her, they immediately got a very different idea of what is happening. One that Sally isn’t what you would call  _fond_  of. No one has said it to her face yet, but the tricky questions that dance around the topic paired with the arched eyebrows say enough.

 

One morning, she’s up before the crack of dawn, as per usual. Shower, check, plain clothes, check. She ties her thick blond curls back into a ponytail, adding a headband to keep any wisps from poking their way out from her scalp. Then, with a kind of serenity that she had not felt in a long time, she walks into the kitchen. Sally opens the cabinet right by the stove, retrieving a pot, then goes through a drawer for a large wooden spoon. Ronan is still dead asleep on the couch, or at least he’s pretending to be, until she smacks the flat end of the spoon against the pot, making a sound almost loud enough to make her ears ring.

 

Ronan curses, just once, and bolts up from the couch, haunches tense, fangs growing and pointed until they could rip into the throat of someone twice his size as easy as pie. It takes him all but a moment to realize that there is, in fact, no danger, and that Sally is acting obnoxious for the sake of annoying him.

 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Sally says with a tone of faux cheerfulness so convincing, even her father wouldn’t recognize that she’s facetious. “I’m off to my volunteer job. You can stay if you want, but I’m walking out the door in five.”

 

Ronan squints at her, hair askew, mouth slightly open, and blinks once. “What time is it?”

 

“Before sunrise, but I’m about to leave so,” she shrugs, walking back around the counter of her kitchen and begins to fiddle with her coffee maker, “you should probably think about  _getting dressed.”_

 

Though she would never let a word of complaint get to her father, it did feel a little awkward that he slept in some old, ratty shirt with plain boxers. No, not shorts over the boxers,  _boxers._  Maybe he isn’t exactly a guest in her home, but would it kill him to behave a little less… she can’t even think of a single word. Discourteous? She picks out one of her thermoses and starts a coffee cycle, the machine gently sputtering as it heats the water to an acceptable temperature.

 

“Is there any way I can possibly talk you out of this?” Ronan grumbles, getting himself up and slogging over to the bathroom to get dressed.

 

“Not a chance.” She adds the necessary amount of sugar and cream to the liquid, the pokes in the drawer for a spoon. “Do you want coffee?”

 

“I guess.”

 

“You ‘guess,’” Sally mimics quietly while reopening one of the cabinets, looking over the different thermoses that she’s managed to collect over the years. Without thinking about it particularly much, she reaches inside and pulls out another, placing it under the coffee machine and starting the machine’s cycle over.

 

When he returns, hair still disheveled, eyes clearly dull with sleep-depravity and annoyance, he grabs the pastel blue and pink thermos without a word of complaint. Satisfied that he hasn’t bogged down her exit at all, Sally snags her bag from the counter and leaves, breathing in the brisk coolness of dawn as she walks towards her car. Ronan takes her keys and gets behind the wheel, insisting on driving in case they get attacked on the road. While he does have a gorgeous, shiny black Harvey motorcycle that half the men in her apartment complex drool over, her dad would just about have an aneurysm if he found out she rode on one of those, so she gets into the passenger seat without complaining.

 

The drive is almost completely silent, save for Sally offering directions for where they need to go. Just a simple  _turn right,_  or maybe a  _keep straight_  to make sure he knows where to go. Ten minutes before she’s scheduled, they pull up to a rickety old building with a single street light flickering over the pale gravel parking lot. A chipped sign that was probably bright blue at some time in the past reads  _Emmerson Shelter,_  though the ‘n’ in Emmerson is almost completely stripped away.

 

“This place looks like a dump,” Ronan mutters, hands tight on the steering wheel.

 

“Well, it is,” Sally says, opening the car door and swinging her legs out. “Held together only with spit and hope.”

 

Brow furrowed, Ronan follows her inside through the cracked glass doors. The moment he steps through the threshold, the shelter nearly explodes with sound. Dogs start barking, some high pitched yaps that will surely leave Sally’s ears ringing, others low resonating growls that shake her very bones. One of the other volunteers, Margot, comes out from the back with a bewildered look on her face until she sees him. Sally wouldn’t exactly call the look on Margot’s face  _fear,_  but there was definitely something rather negative mixed in there.

 

“Hey, um, I brought a new volunteer.” Sally has to shout over the dog racket.

 

“Yes, I’m sure.” Margot didn’t seem particularly pleased, but it might have been due to getting barked at point blank by thirty or so dogs. She reaches into the filing cabinet and pulls out some bright pink papers, setting it on the table and sliding it over with a cheap ballpoint pen. Ronan scrunches his nose as he looks at the thickness of the paperwork, which, by the way, isn’t anything particularly significant, but Sally immediately knows he has no intention of filling anything out.

 

“I’ll help him, don’t worry.” Knowing anything he might say would just tick Margot off, Sally takes the paperwork herself and flashes the head volunteer one of her best smiles.

 

Either Margot is too exhausted to put up more of a fuss for protocol and such, or she’s beyond the human comprehension of eagerness to get the absolute hell out of the noise pit because she hands Sally the keys and leaves from her night shift without another word. The paperwork goes right back into the filing cabinet, the pen into a smudged mason jar by the ancient computer. With the dogs still barking like the apocalypse has begun, Sally enters the kennel room, little balls of fur shaking almost violently with excitement.

 

Margot had already fed them, but what Sally has to cycle through a few of them at a time in the backyard area. Already, she begins to fiddle with the cage to her immediate right, opening the gate just to have a blur of black and white bolt from the inside, going towards Ronan at nearly the speed of sound. Before she can even think to do anything about it, Ronan has caught the dalmatian, midair, like some professional dog catcher, and holds it out from his body as it tries licking his face. And fails, certainly by accident. Apparently, all his rippling gangster muscles are no match for an overly excited puppy.

 

While it is usually a hassle to coax three or four dogs out to the backyard, the moment Ronan steps out through the door, they are all tripping over themselves to follow. Sally kind of wishes he was here on her first day working, back when none of the dogs really knew or respected her. She ended up having to pick up and carry some of them back inside once the outdoor time was over, but there is absolutely almost no issue with Ronan just walking back through the door. They follow him like he’s the dog jesus.

 

The sun has risen enough that Sally doesn’t feel the need to wear her sweatshirt, so she takes it off and sets it gently to the right of the door, on the dry cement porch. Once she looks back over to the patchy, haphazardly planted grass to make sure the dogs are all behaving, she sees Ronan, on his knees, play-wrestling with one of the bigger dogs. Sally has a sudden, odd realization as he flips the dog onto her belly and starts scratching like he has nothing to lose that Ronan… is actually kind of cute. Of course the moment he realizes that she’s watching, he straightens his spine to throw up a facade of rigidness.

 

Once all the dogs have had their outside time, Sally does a quick kennel check to make sure everything is up to code, and also maybe a little more than that, since ‘up to code’ isn’t exactly what she would call healthy dog living. Once she’s sure that the dogs are perfectly fine, she hangs out by the front desk, tidying up the dingy lobby as best she can. By the time the next volunteer arrives, a good couple hours into the afternoon, Sally is both exhausted from the work, but also ready to eat her weight in some greasy fast food. It doesn’t take much more than a sentence to convince Ronan to drive through one of the restaurants on the way back to her apartment.

 

Neither of them talks about volunteer gigs after the end of her shifts, but Sally thinks, as she sits down in the library lounge, that Ronan might have a soft side that he is hiding from her. Maybe to keep her fearing him? She puckers her lips around her pencil eraser in thought. Again, she goes through another, long, disgruntling day of studying until her eyes bleed when she gets back to the apartment complex, book bag almost impossibly heavy on her shoulder from textbooks and notes. Why she doesn’t just get the ebooks, she barely knows at this point in the semester, but there’s something undeniably organic about the way real books feel that keeps her going the more expensive route. Besides, it’s not _her_  money she’s spending.

 

Before she has a chance to walk through her door, Ronan grabs her by the shirt and yanks her back into the hallway. Sally has half a mind to let a hellish amount of frustration on him, but then she notices two details. One, his teeth are bared, sharp and pearly white fangs poking out over his lip, and two, his entire body is suddenly tense. He sniffs the air, once, and pokes the door with his foot to open it further.

 

The living room is trashed. The couch is overturned, cushions tossed wildly from one side to the other, a lamp knocked over and on the floor, the coffee table turned to the side. One of Sally’s paintings that stood as a centerpiece for the wall has been wildly slashed to ribbons, and several little sculptures she had painstakingly put together are scattered in pieces. Sally feels the urge to vomit, not in disgust, but from the frustration that slams into her like a tsunami. She doesn’t utter a word of argument as Ronan shoves his way past her.

 

Sally follows, sticking close to Ronan as he checks to make sure whoever did this is long gone. As they make their way to her room, Sally can already see from the hallway that her prized vase, one that brought her victory in her school’s annual art festival, had been shattered against the faux wood floor. Her chest feels hollow, the air suddenly not nearly enough to fill it, as she kneels down, fingers reaching out for the shards, tears finally dripping down her face.

 

Ronan is too busy looking under her bed, through her closet, and behind her curtains to even notice until satisfied that there is no one else with them in the room. When he finally turns around, seeing her on her knees, tearfully in front of a mess of blue and green shards, he takes a single step back. But then, completely unexpectedly, he bends over and starts to  _help,_  picking up the sharper bits of the vase and setting them in the hand towel she had grabbed. After a few minutes of working in silence, Ronan asks, “Was this very expensive?”

 

“It’s one of a kind,” Sally chokes, certain that she’ll never make another piece quite like it again. The details she had spent  _days_ painstakingly carving, the glaze she had carefully layered to look like sea glass, Sally isn’t even in ceramics this semester, there’s no conceivable way she could do anything about it for a long while with all her other school work piling up. And then, quieter, she adds, “it was the best I did for the whole year.”

 

A pause. “You… made that?” His tone of voice is suddenly different, more… empathetic? “I mean, I didn’t really see it, but knowing you… it must have been… neat.”

 

Sally almost hiccups from grief.

 

Awkwardly, as though he had never touched another human being before in his life, he reaches a large, tan hand over and gives her a pat on the shoulder. “I have to make a call.”

 

Sally knows what that call is going to entail, and who it is going to. “I don’t want to talk to him, so when he asks, just say no.”

 

Ronan lets out a huff of breath. “I’ll try, but I’d like to remind you that not only is he my boss, but he also likes to cut off appendages as punishment for not following orders.”

 

“He still needs you and both your hands. This little show of power from his enemies proves that, at least.” Sally sticks her chin out, folding the small hand towel over the pieces of her vase. “The man is going to be scared, and he’s going to want you even more now.”

 

Ronan grunts at her statement. “Sounds like you’ve got him all figured out, firecracker.”

 

“I grew up with him,” Sally manages to keep all the shards inside the makeshift bag she made, “I should hope I do.”

 

While Sally brushes most of the shards into an empty shoebox, Ronan makes the call, continuously glancing at her as though a sniper pointer will light up her head at any minute. There are a lot of  _yes sir’s, no sir’s, of course, sir’s, she’s safe sir’s._  Sally had never thought Ronan could manage to call anyone  _sir_  or  _ma’am_  without coughing up a gallon of blood beforehand from the mental pain of having to respect someone.

 

But her father can have that effect on people.

 

“I don’t think she’s going to like that,” Ronan says only a few minutes after the call, catching Sally’s attention with the subtlety of whiplash. “But I’ll tell her.”

 

“Tell me what?” She hisses, impatience blooming in her chest.

 

Only when he puts his phone down will he face her again. “We’re leaving.”

 

It takes her a moment to comprehend what he had just said. “We’re- what? No, we aren’t.”

 

“Sally,” Ronan runs his fingers through his dark hair, dark circles so much more pronounced under his eyes, “look at this place. Look at your things. If you had been in this room maybe even just ten minutes earlier, you might be the one cut up into thin strips instead of your artwork, and I would be in a locked box sinking into the Atlantic. We need to go somewhere else, just until it’s safe to come out again.”

 

She puffs up her cheeks in frustration but deflates. Ronan is right, and she knows it. In any case, all her father has to do is snap is his manicured nails in the right person’s direction and she’d wake up a week later in Romania. At least Ronan is somewhat more, well, not kind or gentle, but respectful of her as a person. Even after raising her, she still doesn’t think her father has the understanding that Sally is her own individual person with needs that don’t quite align with his. “Fine. Where?”

 

“I just need you to trust me on that, the least everyone knows, the better.”

 

It hurts. Sally would never be able to explain how the pain in her chest tightens when he says it. And she knows it’s not the fact that Ronan won’t talk to her about it, no, she’s used to him being gruff and distant. Having to put herself, relatively blindly, in someone for the first time since… her  _father,_  makes her feel almost dizzy. She doesn’t have to do it, though, she  _could_  whip out her phone and talk to her dad for the first time in a year… but…

 

“Fine.” Her teeth hurting from gritting them so tightly.

 

Ronan offers a tight nod, almost as if he knows how much doing so bothers her so profoundly. “Pack a bag, maybe a week’s worth of clothes. And any valuables that haven’t been broken or stolen, but only if they really matter to you. The more we have, the more we will get bogged down with if something happens.”

 

Sally already knows the drill, though. Surprise ‘vacations’ were far more common in her life than in others, so she’s mastered the art of packing a large amount of clothes in a small amount of time. Now, though, Ronan’s request of packing light weighs against her mind as she pulls a duffle bag from beneath her bed. Things that can easily match with just about everything goes inside, plain colored pants, conservatively patterned shirts, etcetera. Just as she zips the bag shut, a little wooden box full of watercolor supplies that she keeps on her dresser catches her eye. Without another thought, she reaches over and stuffs it on top of her clothes.

 

Ronan is waiting for her as she hobbles out of her room, duffle strap over one shoulder, book bag stuffed with as much homework and textbooks as can possibly fit in the other. His eyes visibly narrow at her, but he doesn’t utter a word at her attempt to bring some normalcy with her as they go. The sun is already setting as they load whatever they brought into the trunk of her car, and then they are off like a shot. Ronan drives at leave ten over the speed limit, going up to twenty the moment they exit the city limits. Even in the rapidly dimming light, Sally notices how ashenly pale his knuckles are as he grips the steering wheel like a lifeline.

 

She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she opens her eyes to a bright pink sunrise, a beautiful wash of colors bleeding out from the treetops. Rock plays on the car speakers, turned down so significantly she barely even notices. The road that Ronan is on is scarcely anything more than a patch of dirt, a strip of grass running through the center from the minuscule amount of traffic it sees. On either side of the car is a forest, tall, leafy trees so thick with growth that she can only see the first few rows of branches, the rest disappearing behind a mass of yellows and reds.

 

“Mornin’ Firecracker.” Ronan turns the speaker down all the way when he notices that she’s awake, barely, her eyelids keep trying to pull themselves back downwards, but awake nonetheless.

 

“Morning.” There’s nothing more she wants to do that stretch her spine out, but that will have to wait. “How much longer, do you think?”

 

“Not much.” Ronan reaches down to the single McDonald’s coffee cup in the holder, taking a long, savoring swig. “We are rolling up right now.”

 

It’s a log cabin, Sally realizes, the car slowing down to a stop. Nothing as grand or as extravagant as any of the other safehouses she’s been in, but this one somehow seems significantly better than those in most ways. It stands at only one story high, though it has a good length to it, and Sally could estimate maybe two bedrooms can fit in there. Maybe three if everything is super squished. With a childlike giddiness to explore a new area, she unbuckles her seat belt, pops the car door open, and steps out into the cold autumn air.

 

Pulling the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands, she resists the urge to shiver as she looks up at the foliage, her breath steaming out in tiny puffs in the air. After only a minute of looking over the scenery, she begins to help Ronan unload their luggage, placing whatever was in her trunk onto the front porch, by the rocking chair.

 

“Whose place is this?” She asks once they are finished, her breaths coming out in exhausted huffs.

 

“Mine.”

 

 _”Yours?”_  Sally hadn’t meant to sound so incredulous, but when she had pictured where Ronan had come from, the idea of a quaint little bungalow in the forest hadn’t crossed her mind. A ratchety tin shed, maybe, the slums of a large city, perhaps, but not… this.

 

“You sound surprised, firecracker.” He sounds almost smug as he unlocks the cabin’s door, pushing it open with his foot.

 

Sally gives a shrug in response, grabbing as much as she can carry and hauling it inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. While there is an underlying scent of dust in the air, the cabin is clean as can be, which she hadn’t been expecting from a bachelor with Ronan’s rougher reputation. Arms around her chest, she looks for pictures, photo albums, anything that might show her snippets of Ronan’s life, though she ultimately finds nothing.

 

“You hungry?” Ronan asks.

 

“Always,” Sally says, still looking in case she accidentally missed anything.

 

The sound of the refrigerator opens as Ronan investigates their options, though there can’t be anything worth eating if he hasn’t restocked in the few months he had been working with her. Eventually, he comes to the same conclusion as she, shutting the door and letting out a sigh.

 

“I guess that’s my cue to go grocery shopping. And before you ask, no, you can’t come.”

 

The request had been on the tip of her tongue, yes. It’s not even peculiar that he can guess her moves, Sally supposes that’s just what happens when two people live with each other for a while. Swallowing down a strange wave of emotion, she tries distracting herself by balancing on the edges of her feet.

 

“You can’t be on any radars, and most grocery stores have security cameras.” He’s already putting his jacket back on, smoothing his hair back with a single motion over his head. “Just driving through any restaurants with you in the passenger was a risk in itself. You don’t get to be in any more unnecessary danger- what are you doing?”

 

Sally takes a step forward, then another, and then one more until she’s wrapping her arms around his chest and squeezing as tight as she can manage. “I don’t want you to leave me.”

 

“Oh,” Ronan’s voice mutes slightly. One of his hands reaches over and sits atop her hair. “I… don’t want to leave you, either. But we need to eat.”

 

Sally waits a good couple of moments before letting go, then gives him her world-famous puppy eyes.

 

Ronan gives her a single pat on the head. “Still not taking you to the grocery store.”

 

She gives him a face. “I’d thought to try anyway.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! This is a second part of the commissioned story! Please enjoy.

The watercolor wash of yellow and orange begins to dry as Sally starts mixing the perfect shade for the bright red foliage of the surrounding trees, the large window on the side of the living room giving her the perfect view without her having to go outside in the cold. Three mugs sprawl out in front of her, one for cleaning the paintbrush off, one for untainted mixing water, and one for her tea that she might have accidentally placed her brush in once or twice. Gently blowing on the first layer of paint to get it to dry quicker, Sally glances up at the old clock, mentally calculating how long Ronan has gone. About… two hours at this point.

 

She can’t look at her phone to call or text him; it’s been turned off and placed in the safe that Ronan has in the basement. There is a single, ancient-looking landline with Ronan’s phone number scribbled on a notecard to the side, and when Sally had lifted the receiver, she heard the telltale hum of the connection. Even though she had debated calling him, she didn’t want to come off as clingy. Hanging out by yourself in a cabin that’s so far away from civilization with only a single ratty old dirt road to get to and from it can give anyone an extra dose of nervousness, so it’s not like she’s irrational with wanting company. While she  _could_  just hang out in the room Ronan had presented as hers earlier in the day, with the gorgeous cross-stitch piece hanging in a frame on the wall, she feels strange sitting on the bed as if she’s invading someone else’s space.

 

Instead of spiraling down with her insecurities and fears, though, she begins to paint a beautiful maple tree. A part of her wishes she could have her phone to play some of the music  _she_  wants to hear, but at least there’s a little portable radio that she has tuned to a station with a decent array of music. The only downside is, of course, the advertisements that she can’t just skip after five seconds or pay for premium access, leaving her to suffer through it. By the time Ronan gets back, she’s already shouting alongside the  _’BIG MAC is BAC’_ commercial with great success.

 

“I leave you for what, a few hours, and you’ve already been brainwashed by corporate propaganda.”

 

She hadn’t heard him come in since the radio had been turned up to the maximum volume to try and drown out her anxiety. In fact, Sally has been so wound up that she is one hundred percent prepared to stab him in the eye with the back of her paintbrush, knuckles white against the wooden handle as she spins around. At the sight of him, hands full of grocery bags in the posture of someone who will only make  _one_  trip from the car to the fridge even if it kills him, she lets out a sigh of relief, setting the makeshift weapon back down on the kitchen table. Maybe she should turn down the radio, even if it’s just a little bit.

 

Ronan sets the reusable  _(reusable!)_  bags down on the counter, the plastic-like material crinkling slightly as he does so. As he unloads the different groceries down- bread, eggs, bacon, and so on- he’s already separating some of the items away from the others, putting almost everything away except a select few. Within moments, he’s got a cast iron skillet on the old gas stove, lighting a match to ignite one of the burners. Oil, then vegetables, stirred with a wooden spoon, the smell almost becoming too much for Sally’s empty stomach to sit quietly. She tries to distract herself from the hunger by clearing away her art supplies out from the center of the table, setting everything carefully to the side.

 

After just a moment of mixing on heat, he adds eggs, waiting just a moment before lifting the panhandle with a cloth, shaking it back and forth for a moment,  _flipping_  the omelet with nothing more than the help of physics. Sally almost bursts into laughter, but she’s too shocked to do anything more than stare as it finishes cooking. Ronan slides the food onto a plate he had quickly rinsed and dried, placing it just in front of her as if he’s a professional chef. After the moment of shock wears off, Sally picks up the fork and takes a bite, and, okay, she won’t lie. She was expected it not to taste anywhere near as good as it does.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me that you can cook?” She asks, incredulously, as she shovels an unladylike amount of food into her mouth. “I wouldn’t have ordered all the takeout if I had known!”

 

“You never asked.” Ronan’s mouth curves in a slight smirk. “And besides, I never turn down free food. Or the opportunity to not work as hard.”

 

Sally lets out a puff of exacerbated breath because  _of course,_  but doesn’t feel the need to complain as she eats the rest of the food. Of course, she volunteers to do the dishes, might as well offer up some productivity, so while she starts filling the sink with sudsy water, she watches Ronan’s movements like a hawk. There’s something about the awkwardness of invading someone’s house that feels like it’s increased by threefold because… well, it’s Ronan, and she doesn’t know anything about it. The fact that she is in  _his_ cabin with a hypothetical window into his life, it feels strange.

Once the dishes are done, Sally realized how little there is to do. Yes, she can finish this painting today, and another one tomorrow, and another one after that. But with the limited amount of things to use as subject pieces, ohhhhh noooo, she’s going to get so restless. Pulling all her supplies back from the corner of the table and spreading everything out again, she tries to distract herself with the inevitability of cabin fever as she continues painting each and every leaf that she can see. The few hours before dinner fly by quickly, as they tend to do when she’s engrossed in her work, and Ronan is soon back in the kitchen, working on whatever recipe he has up his sleeve.

 

“Question,” Sally starts as Ronan sits across from her, “and feel free to shut me down if you think I’m acting xenophobic, I’ll knock it off. I know that werewolves feel the urge to change during the full moon, but I don’t think you’ve disappeared in the couple of months you’ve been with me.” Inwardly, she cringes at her choice of words. Sounds almost like they’re a couple.

 

Ronan cocks his head to the side slightly, eyes flickering in thought. “Well, you know how people who are violently allergic to things have epipens, right?” At her nod, he continues, reaching into his pocket and pulling out something about the size of a thick pencil. “Werewolves have something similar. If we feel the need to turn, we’ll slam this into our thigh, and that should stave off anything for a good couple of hours, which normally is enough time to get away from whatever the trigger is.”

 

Oh, it suddenly makes sense now. “That’s convenient,” she says, unable to think of any other words to describe having to stab yourself whenever you felt on the edge of a frenzy.  _Good_  isn’t quite the term she is looking for since this isn’t really a situation that could be construed as positive.

 

Ronan shrugs as though it’s nothing. “It’s easier than being locked up in the slum camps.”

 

Sally bites down her tongue and doesn’t say anything else. Once a were ends up in the slum camps, whether it was for petty crime or a fully fledged change in a populated area, it is very, very difficult for them to get back out. Even if they do, they need to have a human sponsor, an upcoming job with on the book wages, and those are the only two qualifications that she, a person who has lived a somewhat sheltered life, knows about. She has little doubt that there are so much more hoops those poor people have to jump through simply to be able to walk around unchained again.

 

Silently, she pokes at the food on her plate, scrambling for a way to turn this conversation somewhat positive, but the first thing that pops into her head is, “I’m glad that you’re the one protecting me.”

 

There is a pause, during which she is mentally kicking herself before Ronan responds. “This is the best job I could ask for given the circumstances.”

 

Which isn’t really an affirmation of any kind, more of a double-edged sword. They finished their food in silence, and Sally immediately started clearing the table. There’s no dishwasher, which she is only momentarily grateful for since that’s thirty minutes she doesn’t have to think about how she should be productive. Instead of hanging out in the living area with Ronan as he begins to clean and oil a wickedly sharp looking hunting knife, Sally finally decides to retreat to the room she’ll be staying in.

 

While it might not even be close to the most luxurious place she has ever been to, it most definitely is the homiest. And, as Sally thinks about it,  _homey_  is something she favors much more than whatever money can buy. Home is someplace that someone works to get, their emotions bleed through the surface, their love and hard work pouring into every crevice of the log walls and wooden floor. At the same time, Sally feels almost like she shouldn’t be there, that she is intruding on someone else’s life, and that she doesn’t deserve to catch glimpses of what Ronan is like outside of his job.

 

In any case, she lays down, the sheets stiff from years of unuse, pillow so saggy beneath her neck that she has to fold it in half for any kind of support. While the curtains have been drawn shut from whenever Ronan was last here, Sally eyes them suspiciously, as though someone might be on the other side, biding their time. With the tossing and turning she does, it’s a miracle she can even get a wink of sleep in the night, her heart thumping at any kind of creak the house sounds as it settles. That’s the thing about different buildings, they make unique noises in the night. It’s funny how little it took for Sally to forget that just from living a single year in an apartment.

 

Just as she had predicted; the next days of monotony begin to drive her mad. Sally tries her best to stay busy, she does, but she can only do so much homework without her professor’s instructions before she begins to lose it. She’s painted almost every interesting position out of the windows, and then gathered up some random objects from the cabin and tried making a still life. That painting only partially developed before she got bored of the subject material and abandoned it, still taped to a random piece of wood board she found for stability. Ronan walks with her outside, but only in short, quick bursts, not nearly enough to make Sally feel less isolated from the rest of the world.

 

Even though Sally would rather very much prefer that Ronan doesn’t leave her side, he still has to go out and buy food, without her. She watches him leave in another motorcycle he had stashed away in the adjacent shed (apparently he has more than just one), since taking her car might catch the attention from the wrong person. The moment he leaves from view, she begins to feel nervous once more, and even while she tries to rationalize it, you really can’t logic anxiety away.

 

Before she has a chance to spiral, the door knocks.

 

Her mouth goes dry.

 

Ronan always just strolls through the door like he owns the place, because,  _you know,_  so someone knocking would mean that this is someone else; theoretically, she thinks, trying to calm herself. Ronan might have just forgotten his keys, the ones he used to… leave… on the motorcycle. There’s a hunting knife that hangs on the wall like some antique trophy, so Sally stands on the tips of her toes to snag it before approaching the door. Biting her lower lip from nervousness, her fingers close around the cold doorknob as she tries calming her breath. Then, slowly, she opens it.

 

It’s a little girl, only about as tall as her waist, clothes filthy, puffy hair full of dirt, leaves, and twigs. The side of her quivering mouth is dripping with blood, her faded jeans ripped around her left knee. The eyes, though, are what catch Sally’s attention the most; bright, ruby-red, the color vivid enough to feel like it glows against her dull, earthy skin. In a small, mousy voice, she asks, “are you Ronan?”

 

“I- um, Ronan isn’t here right now, can I help you with anything?”

 

Wrong thing to say, apparently, because the little girl sticks out her lower lip, tears filling her eyes, and begins to bawl as if Sally had just straight slapped her instead.

 

Immediately panicking, she bends over, trying to get to the little child’s level, and begins to let out a hasty bit of comfort. “It’s- it’s alright. Ronan should be back any minute, really, he just went out to get food.” She realizes that she still has a machete the size of her forearm in hand, and not only is it probably terrifying the kid, but it’s also too late to do anything about it. Camly, robotically, she places it up on the coat hanger shelf that sits on the wall, directly to the side of the door while the girl goes hysterical.

 

Sally has never really needed to deal with a screaming child, and as the girl’s breath comes out in uneven gasps and chokes, tears clearing away the dirt from her cheeks and chin, she just sort of stands there, watching for a moment in complete befuddlement. Without any other idea of what to do, Sally ushers her in, setting the girl on one of the couches while she searches for something to wipe the grime with, going through the drawers frantically as she temporarily forgets where anything is with the impending stress. Finally, Sally is victorious, lifting up a small washcloth before running it under warm water from the tap.

 

The little girl doesn’t protest as Sally begins to gently scrub the mud off her face, her sobs slowing down to quiet, miserable hiccups as she gradually gets cleaner. Now, Sally doesn’t exactly have anything that could possibly fit this girl’s skinny, tiny frame, but there is no way she is going to let this poor creature stay in those dirty clothes a minute longer. One of her painting shirts should do the trick, and since it exists merely for the express purpose of getting dirty, Sally doesn’t mind its fate too terribly. Sally helps the girl change after she locates the shirt, slipping the oversized thing over her dusty hair, the stick-like arms popping out of the sleeves after Sally reaches through the holes to help guide her hands.

 

Soon enough, Sally has a much calmer child sitting at the table, pouring glass after glass of water for her to drink as if the poor thing has gone days without. There are billions of questions circling inside Sally’s head,  _what is a child doing out in the forest, why does she look like she just clawed her way out of hell, and how exactly is Ronan involved with this,_  but she starts with something small, something easily given up. “My name is Sally, what’s yours?”

 

The girl looks up at her, like a deer in headlights.

 

Sally feels almost guilty, the poor thing looks like she’s ready to be punched in the gut at any moment. “It’s alright if you don’t want to tell me, that’s you’re choice to make.”

 

It takes only a moment of silence. Quietly, as though the girl fears some kind of reprimand, she speaks. “Bernadette.”

 

Sally tries not to revel  _too_  hard at this step in the right direction. “Bernadette? That’s your name?” At the girl’s nod, Sally tries offering some encouragement for the show of trust. “That’s such a beautiful name! Not quite as fancy and pretty as plain old  _Sally,_ huh?”

 

Bernadette’s mouth twitches upward in a way that reminds Sally of Ronan, the hesitancy for showing any positive emotion was so on par that she gets an overwhelming sense of deja vu. Just as she’s about to start wheedling the story of why a kid that can’t be more than eight years old is out and about in the deep wilderness, more knocking comes from the door. It’s not like the girl’s knocking, which had been quiet and timid, but loud, demanding. Bernadette’s eyes glance up to drawn curtains as if they would suddenly disappear to reveal her worst nightmare lurking on the porch.

 

As Sally approaches the door, she feels her heart lurching in her stomach as she hears thick, dull sounding footsteps just outside on the porch. If this were a few months ago, Sally would automatically assume it’s Ronan, clomping on the wooden porch and waiting to be let in. But something is off about the rhythm of the steps, the sound of the boots, ticks and shows that someone would only catch if they are just shy of being intimately familiar with a person.

 

Carefully, she retrieves the machete back from the top of the coat rack, gripping it so tightly that her knuckles turn white. There is no peephole to look through, so Sally just opens the door quickly in the hopes of throwing whoever it is off their game, giant knife hidden behind her back in a not so subtle manner. “Can I help you?”

 

The sight of this man makes her skin crawl.

 

For one, his smile is far too wide for her comfort. It reminds her of that one man her dad still does business with, one that watched her with eyes a little too hawk-like when she was younger, showering Sally with strange compliments that made both her and her dad uncomfortable. Second, while his uniform is of a police force, it isn’t exactly one that Sally is intimately familiar with, but she is confident that Ronan must be. CCU is embroidered on his uniform, just above the left pocket, and she knows that he isn’t here for any humans.

 

“Can I help you?” She asks, hoping her dull green eyes will help put him off.

 

“Pardon the intrusion, ma’am, but I’m here to do a scheduled checkup to the were resident listed in the lease.”

 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sally doesn’t know where Ronan is or when he’ll be back. “Um, I’m sorry, my bod- er,  _boyfriend,_  will be back from the grocery store shortly. Can you come back in a few hours?”

 

The officer waits for a beat, blinking his icy eyes only once. “I didn’t realize that Ronan had a girlfriend, nor one so… human, as you seem.”

 

Sally forces a smile and begins to shut the door. “I’ll let him know that you stopped by, nice meeting you!”

 

He sticks his foot in the threshold, stopping the door just as Sally thought it was all over. Calmly, she opens the door again, throwing up a poker face so quickly that even trained detectives don’t even notice.

 

“Will that be all?” She asks, her tone an unfriendly an echo from when she first opened the door.

 

“Mmm, we’ll see.” He digs through his pockets, retrieving a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it carefully with his pale hands, he flips it around and shows a picture of a little girl, hair in careful, precise braids. When the officer shoves it towards her, she takes it reluctantly, not wanting any part of this in the slightest, needing to play along only until he leaves. “Have you seen this girl? She’s been missing from her family, her  _poor_  mother is absolutely frantic.”

 

Even though she tries to only pretend to look over the picture with no real intention of memorizing it, she realizes that the sparkly red eyes look familiar.  _Too_  familiar. Something in her face must have given it away because the officer snatches the picture back victoriously.

 

“Where is she?” He asks, voice no longer holding up a facade of friendliness.

 

 _Lie._  “Oh, her,” Sally waves her hand nonchalantly. “I don’t know. She came looking for money and scraps, so I sent her to the nearest poor house. Don’t know what a were kid was doing all the way out in the forest, but it can’t be anything good.”

 

Out in the distance, Sally can hear the steady putter of an oncoming motorcycle. She does her best to not show any shred of excitement as the officer’s face twitches, ever so slightly. “And where would that be?”

 

Sally offers a shrug. “I don’t know, aren’t there ones in every city? She’ll find it.”

 

Then, miracle of all miracles, Ronan pulls up. Sally can already see that his muscles are tense, ready to fight, but still cautious about having to go toe to toe with this man.

 

“Ah, Mr. Kazimir! How nice of you to join us. I was just chatting with your girlfriend!”

 

Ronan didn’t even give much of a reaction to the last bit, just as Sally had hoped. Two grocery bags in each hand, he walks over, calmly standing to the officer’s side. “Did you need anything, sir?”

 

“No, no, just doing a wellness check. You didn’t come in for your annual appointment, as promised, and haven’t answered any of your cell calls. The only reason you haven’t been arrested yet is that your boss has been vouching for you.”

 

Ronan looks exasperated, but he does his best to keep his cool. “That was yesterday, wasn’t it?”

 

The officer chuckles, giving Ronan a not-so-friendly pat on the shoulder. “Well, if I had a girl with a body like that, I might forget a few things here and there, too.”

 

Neither Sally nor Ronan laughs along.

 

“Is that all, sir?” Ronan asks, voice tense.

 

The officer sighs, “well, there is a kid on the run from the institution, but your girl says that she sent that runt away. Now I have to go look all over town, maybe even out in the next.” He looks at Sally, almost petrifying her with the murder in his eyes. “Next time,” he says, voice no longer holding a shred of faux friendliness, “just invite the child in and wait for me to show up, eh?”

 

“Sure,” Sally says, trying to keep it together.

 

Ronan waits until the officer gets into his sleek, fancy car, driving off with the roar of an engine before coming in. Sally steps away to the side as he does so, letting the machete hang limply by her leg as she closes the door, locking the deadbolt. For a moment, everything is completely silent, then Ronan turns towards her, eyes livid.

 

“You  _turned away_  a- a- child? What is wrong-”

 

“Will you shut up for a second?!” Sally surprises herself by her tone and how much his words hurt. “Do you honestly think I’m that- that malicious? That I’m stupid? Is that what you really believe about me?”

 

Ronan blinks, half shaking his head, and is about forming another sentence when Sally beats him to the punch.

 

“I thought you would know me better than that.”

 

One of the bedroom doors creeks open behind her, and by the look in Ronan’s eyes, Bernadette must have stepped out. Without another word, Sally stares him down as the little girl takes a step into the short hallway, the floor creaking against her slight weight.

 

“I was hiding,” Bernadette says, her voice timid and airy.

 

Sally immediately spins around, dropping the anger so Bernadette won’t have to witness the ugliness of it all. “And that was a very, very smart thing to do, honey. If that man had come in, I wouldn’t have been able to stop him.”

 

Bernadette nods, and actually smiles at her for the first time, showing off a gap where her front teeth should be. Without another word to Ronan, Sally takes the bags from his hands, then sets them on the kitchen counter to take stock of what they have to use for dinner. Bernadette is probably starving, after all, and Sally wants this little girl’s first meal to be a good one.

 

“Thay man is going to be back with a search warrant,” Ronan says, “once he realizes there is no sign of the girl out in town.”

 

“Then, I guess,” Sally pulls out a loaf of bread, “we should think about moving on, huh?”

 

“Running would look suspicious.”

 

“And staying for him to find her is a better alternative?”

 

Ronan closes his mouth tightly, knowing that she’s right. “Not only did that CCU guy see your face, he probably is going to figure out that there’s a hefty price on your head once he starts asking around. There’s no way I can transport you anywhere, anymore, at least nowhere with federal were regulators.”

 

Sally presses her hands against the counter, hoping the pressure against her palms will help steel her nerves. “Give me my cell phone, I’ll call in a favor.”

 

“Sally-”

 

“I said to give me my godda-” she lets the curse word sizzle out as he glances over to Bernadette, “- just get me my phone.”

 

Ronan stares at her, just for a second, but doesn’t utter another word of argument as he spins around, retreating back to the safe. As he does so, Sally taps her fingers against the fake granite, and asks Bernadette, “what are you feeling for dinner? Grilled cheese? Pasta?”

 

Her ruby eyes sparkle, if she were any hungrier, she might start drooling on the floor.

 

Well, Sally doesn’t want the kid to eat herself sick, so she can’t just slam down a feast of unprecedented carbs, no matter how much she wants to spoil her. “Why don’t we start with some grilled cheese and soup? It’s warm you right up.”

 

Ronan comes up, just in time for Sally to relay the dinner plan to him, handing her the phone.

 

Calmly, despite the butterflies ramming up and down in her stomach, she walks over to her room. After shutting and locking the door, she flops onto her bed, watching the cell phone’s screen light up as she turns it on for the first time in what feels like years. After typing in her password, her thumb hovers over the phone app for a minute, listening to the muted voices of Ronan and Bernadette on the other side of her door.

 

Breathing in and out, trying to get a hold of herself, she types in the phone number she’s had memorized by heart.

 

It only rings once.

 

“Sally?”

 

Deep breath. “Hey, dad. I need a favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Youtuber voice* If you liked what you read, smash that kudos button! Want to tell me how much you liked this fic? Leave me a comment! Want to keep tabs on my writings? Subscribe and you get a free (yes, FREE) email every time I publish a fic! Want me to write more? Shower me with praise because positive reinforcement motivates me to work!

**Author's Note:**

> *Youtuber voice* If you liked what you read, smash that kudos button! Want to tell me how much you liked this fic? Leave me a comment! Want to keep tabs on my writings? Subscribe and you get a free (yes, FREE) email every time I publish a fic! Want me to write more? Shower me with praise because positive reinforcement motivates me to work!


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